Chained Male
by Leonaria Dragonbane
Summary: I had a strange image in my head  so decided to write about it.  Victor in Chainmail that is.  Enjoy  this is a one shot and complete for now :


Chained Male

I don't own Victor Creed – at this point I wish I did – just because he's so darned possessive I'd like to get a bit of my own back. I don't own the Known World either – for those who don't know what it is or the references – there will be A/N to explain. This will contain quite a bit of mature content – but not necessarily the kind I usually produce. Isabelle DeMarco is my own creation as is her mundane persona Jessie Green.

Chapter One – In Chains

He woke up restrained – something he wasn't used to. He rattled the chains over his head. They didn't give. He moaned – his balls hurt and he wanted nothing more than to adjust them. They had him in some kind of head restraint; he couldn't even look down to see what the problem was. His feet were strapped as well, his knees were strapped to the table, and his waist and chest were also strapped down. His claws couldn't even score the shackles at his wrists.

"It's time for another round of extraction." A deep southern voice nearby said. He felt hands at his groin adjusting him into something cold – metallic. He groaned – his healing factor seemed to be working – too well. He could feel his erection starting. The cold of an IV in his arm told him they were injecting him with something. Hadn't they realized his body metabolized things quickly?

"Put on the visual, auditory and olfactory stimulus device." The voice said again. They slipped something down over his head – and visions of frails were flashed before his eyes. He could feel his body responding – and felt the suction of the machine they had him attached to. He could smell them – the frails – in heat – in need – in pain – blood and fear flooding his sinuses. His body reacted automatically to the stimulus – who ever had him – knew what turned him on.

His body arched in pain and ecstasy as the first climax hit him – and the next and the next. He could feel the cold suction as they collected his seed – and a deep growl built in his throat. He made it a habit to never leave his seed behind – he didn't want cubs – didn't need cubs. What the hell would he do with progeny – he couldn't die.

He didn't even remember how he got here. He had been riding his bike – stopped in a bar for a couple beers – and maybe a frail – the next thing he knew he woke up here – being pumped full of some sort of drug and milked for his seed. Whatever they were giving him – his body wasn't fighting it. He tried to concentrate on sounds past the ones being projected into his ears – to the voices in the room itself.

"…hormones and pheromones are working. Using concentrated amounts of his own body's chemistry keeps him from burning it off. Now we just have to wait for the females to go into cycle with the drugs we are giving them - ovulation will be guaranteed. Insemination should go smoothly."

They were using him in a breeding program. He wanted to struggle, tried to force his body to respond – but his body wasn't listening to his brain. His body was in full rut mode – sex was all that it wanted – and was getting – to the point of pain.

"We are getting blood in the samples – we need to stop and let his body heal." He heard. They disconnected the metal device and he let out a whimper – of both pain and disappointment. His body was becoming addicted to the endorphins released by the constant climax state they kept his body in.

"Should we leave him in the sensory helmet?"

"Yes – put it on a hunting scenario – something he would do to relax." The southern voice said again. His senses were suddenly assailed by the scents of a jungle – the sounds of prey moving in the underbrush and the visual was stunning. What they didn't realize was that he had figured it out – it wasn't real, and now that his body wasn't being fed the concentrated hormones – he could resist the false stimuli.

"It took him over an hour to recover last time – and I don't think he was fully recovered." Last time? How many times had they done this?

"Give him three hours this time – we have enough samples to work with." He heard a click – and the sound of a door closing and locking. There were no other sounds in the room – no breathing – no heartbeat – that he could hear over the helmet. He was alone. He started to pull on the chain over his head. If he could get his hands loose – the rest of this would be easy to get out of. He just hoped he would be able to get out before they started the second part of the program – he never left his seed behind.

Once – and that had been an accident – and a huge mess. He learned that lesson well. There would be no more Graydon Creeds in the world – not if he had anything to say about it. That cub was a piece of shit. They would get no cubs out of him – not if he could stop them – and if he couldn't – well he hoped the frails they were using didn't mind being cut open.

He felt a give in the chain – heard the snap of a bolt over the sounds of the jungle. Good – he pulled harder, the chain giving more. Soon he could feel it ready to let go – but he didn't pull it all the way down – once it was loose they would know – and he wanted it as a weapon. He heard the door open, and the technicians come in to adjust the IV to prepare him for his next round of 'donation.' They took off the hood and he was able to look at the chain over his head. He could see where the eye that was bolted to the ceiling was hanging on by a single bolt they only had his arms chained – not restrained in any other way, which meant he could grab the chain and swing it – once it was loose. He kept his eyes hooded – half closed and watched the technicians move around the room. When one of them came over to inject something into his IV he yanked hard on the chain, pulling it down, the corner of the eye hitting the man in the head, knocking him out – or killing him – he didn't care which.

He swung the chain, hitting the second technician across the face before he could even register that the first one was down. The freedom of his arms allowed him to remove the restraints around his head – ripping them from the table they had him strapped to – the rest of them were easy. He ripped the straps off and climbed off the table. Neither one of the technicians were still breathing which suited him just fine. The door was unlocked and he held the chain in both hands as he headed out the door. Down the hall he could hear the sounds of moaning – screams – and wails – that must be where they were holding the frails. The other way he heard the sounds of voices talking calmly. He went that way first – the frails could wait.

He heard the southern voice before he saw the man – his face clean shaven and rugged. He didn't care – he was going to be wearing his guts for garters – his balls STILL hurt. He limped down the hall, and stood outside the door.

"Female subject number one seems to be responding well – the embryo is implanted, estimating four to five day's gestation at this point – male subject responding well to stimulus – output surpassing expectations. Female subject two should reach ovulation within the next four to six hours." That was all he needed to hear – he burst into the room, chain swinging, slamming the eye that was still attached to the end into the man's head. The woman he had heard in the room screamed – a scream that was cut short by the backlash of the chain whip he was wielding.

The keys to the shackles were on the woman, and he used them to free his hands. Neither one of his victims was breathing – he allowed himself a feral grin, now to deal with the frails. He picked up the research notes from the table. He wanted to go over the information when he had time – try to figure out exactly what they were trying to do. He looked around the room for his clothing or any other possessions he had been wearing in the bar. All he found were a pair of medical scrub pants that were a little short on his long frame. He didn't care, they covered him. He went down the corridor slowly.

There were two guards outside a door at the end, a door he could hear the frantic sounds of female fear behind. He sprinted down the corridor – shock at his appearance kept them from raising their weapons until too late. He had the claws of one hand in the throat of one, and the other deep in the gut of the second man. He grinned at them – his fangs flashing as the first one dropped, covering his face and chest with arterial spray. He licked it off his lips before turning to the second man.

"Which one?" It was all he had to say. The man groaned as his intestines plopped onto the floor with a sickly wet sound. There was a diagram of the room they were guarding – with numbers on the blocks inside. The man put a bloody finger on number eight, which had been highlighted – before his eyes rolled into his head and Victor heard the definite gurgle of a man's dying breath. He grinned again, before wiping his face with his hands, and licking the blood off – fresh blood from a fresh kill – one of his favorite snacks.

He pushed open the door – and the sounds and smells of feminine fear hit him hard. His body tried to react, and he doubled over in pain. Whatever they had done to him – his healing factor hadn't fixed yet. His body couldn't respond – not without pain – and serious pain. His groin was on fire. He had killed them too damned quick. He found a ring of keys hanging on a hook and he limped down the rows of cages, unlocking them as he went. He just pointed to the door and sent the frails running out of there. They hadn't done anything to him – and some of them were just cubs themselves. The world might think he was a monster – but he did have some compassion.

He stood outside the last cage – number eight. He could smell it – the cub – and worse he knew the scent of the female. He moaned in pain as another spasm hit his groin. Damn – reacting to her scent wasn't a good idea – sure she was carrying his cub – but he knew her! She turned and looked at him, her eyes filled with fear and pain – deep intense physical pain. She'd suffered as much as he had. He opened the door and gestured for her to come out.

She just shook her head, a slight moan escaping her lips. Her lower lip was split – as if she had been hit, she had a black eye and several bruises on her arms and legs. He walked over to her and held out a hand.

"Get up, Jessie – I'll help you out of here?" He croaked. His voice was strained from the screams and moans from earlier.

"I can't." She whispered, pointing to her ankle. He could see how swollen it was – broken probably. He reached down and threw her over his shoulder.

"I ain't leavin ya." He said. She just moaned and lay still over his shoulder. He found an exit to the building – the bright afternoon sun almost blinded him. The building was in a run down area of a city – he didn't see any landmarks that told him where. The other frails had disappeared so he started walking down the street, hoping no one would notice a seven foot man with a woman over his shoulder. Luckily the area was deserted.

He found a bench and sat her down on it, and went looking for some form of transportation. He found an old car, and tried to hot wire it – surprisingly the old engine turned right over and he drove it back to where he'd left her.

"We need ta get out of here." He said shortly.

She just nodded as he helped her into the passenger seat.

"How did we get there, Victor?" She asked him.

"I'll explain later – as soon as I figure it out. You need medical attention." He said – looking for a hospital.

"NO! I don't want to see a doctor." He smelled a fresh surge of fear and pain. He knew she didn't like doctors in the first place – but this was beyond her normal reaction.

"You are hurt – and that's just external injuries that I can see." He grumbled.

"I know – but after what they did – I just don't think I could deal with seeing anyone in a lab coat right now." She whispered. He didn't blame her – he was feeling a little that way himself.

"Okay – let's get someplace safe – I can at least set the ankle and splint it." He said.

"Sounds good to me."

He drove until he found a sign indicating where they were – and grinned – he knew how to get to a safe place from here – there wasn't any medical attention – but at least it was home. She leaned back on the old headrest and closed her eyes. He didn't pay a whole lot of attention to her – just drove. He just hoped she could hold up to driving for several days.

They stopped at a rest stop two days later. He had driven straight through; she'd slept most of the way. He looked over at her, she was groggy from sleep. He knew the pain was bad – he could smell it. She was holding up – but then again – the first time he saw her – she had been trying to put up a huge tent all by herself, in a long gown and overdress. He'd been at his first event – Greg had talked him into going – said he needed something to do besides killing people for fun. The damned kid was right – and he ended up finding something that he felt comfortable doing.

He and Greg – Geoffrey of Mildenhall – had helped her set up the pavilion in exchange for using her mundane propane grill – they hadn't known about the burn ban at the park until after they started setting up. It had been a fun weekend, especially when she asked him to serve as her squire – she was new in the kingdom and didn't have one yet. The woman could fight. He shook his head and looked at the swollen ankle in front of him – she wouldn't be able to if he didn't get that thing set right.

"Let me look at that ankle." He said. His body was feeling better, but he was still getting twinges in his groin – which was probably a good thing under the circumstances. She was afraid – in pain – and had been bleeding – all three things that usually had him sporting a raging hard on – right now, he was able to ignore them – ignore anything that sent any stimuli to his groin.

Her sharp intake of breath and the smell of fresh blood didn't help, as he re-broke and maneuvered the bones back into place. He found a couple long sticks and some old rags from the trunk of the car and splinted the ankle. That would have to do until he could get her someplace for more intense medical treatment.

He looked up at her, two days of driving had helped, there was fresh blood dripping from the corner of her mouth where she'd bitten her lip in pain, but the split from earlier was almost completely closed, her eye had faded to a dull greenish yellow and the bruises on her arms had almost disappeared completely. He just handed her one of the cleanest rags to wipe it away the blood.

"That should at least heal straight." He said.

She nodded as she wiped the blood away. She hadn't even flinched at his rustic medical assistance – but then again he knew what she was used to. He helped her into the car again; he was going to have to find her some sort of crutch. Once they got to his home – he should have something there she could use. Home was sounding better and better.

"Do you want to call anyone – let them know you are okay?" He asked.

"Not yet – please, just – not yet." She whimpered.

"Okay – then you are coming with me – for now." The smell of the cub was getting to him – to something deep inside, and it didn't help that SHE was the one carrying it. He kept glancing over at her, fighting his instincts. She lay back in the seat and dozed again – and he tried to decide what he wanted to do.

He should just end this – kill her and the cub and be done with it, but – something – made him rethink it. He'd only known her a few weeks – but the idea that she was carrying his cub stirred something. The cub was a part of him – part of his genetics – that made it HIS! That made her HIS! He really liked that idea. True, he couldn't act on it, for one, his body still hadn't recovered from whatever they'd done to him. He thought he didn't need anyone – didn't want to have to protect anyone, but that was before he met her. His life was simple – eat, hunt, kill, fuck, and not necessarily in that order. A frail and a cub would complicate things – really complicate things. He should just end it – so why was he still driving – driving straight for his cabin?

He heard her moan in her sleep and glanced over. She was thrashing around in the seat, obviously in the throws of a nightmare. He reached over and shook her shoulder; her hand rose up of and grabbed his wrist, leaving bloody half moons where her nails dug in.

"You were dreaming." He said, as she pulled her hand back. He watched the punctures on his wrist close – slowly – far too slowly for comfort.

"Sorry – I didn't mean to hurt you." She whispered.

"You didn't." He said, showing her his wrist.

"Oh." She looked at the blood on her fingers. "I guess that's a good thing,"

"Factor's workin slow. Shoulda healed faster than that." He muttered.

"I know – my body's healing slowly – slower than normal for me anyway."

"Slower than normal?"

"Yes – I heal quickly. It's my mutation. I have to claim a handicap in the lists because of it." She whispered. That explained a few things – like why they had taken him – to try to breed more with the healing mutation.

"Must be something they gave us – to suppress it." He muttered – but he couldn't smell any drugs in either of their systems.

"That or just it's over worked. I know mine gets that way – sometimes." He tried to suppress a grin – he knew exactly how she overworked it.

"It does – that may be it." He wiped a hand over his face. He was tired – needed sleep but he wanted to get them safe. Them – that's when it hit him – he was thinking of the cub as a person – something to be protected. He growled low, and felt her cringe.

"What?"

"Jessie, I have to ask this - do you know who I really am?"

"Victor Creed, mundanely, David Longshanks of Kent in the SCA?"

"Victor Creed – sometimes called Sabretooth." He snarled back at her, no use hiding anything anymore.

"OH!" Her spike of fear was a little reassuring – at least she knew his reputation.

"Do you know – what they were doing back there?" He snarled.

"No."

"Do you know you're pregnant?"

"WHAT!" That was anger – and panic.

"I can smell it, that and I heard them before I killed them – one female subject – four to five days of gestation."

"OH GOD! I can't be pregnant – I have a tournament next month." There was a definite spike of panic – quickly suppressed, but he understood. He found it a little amusing she didn't even flinch about him killing anyone.

"Whatever. You are carrying my kid."

"How do you know it's yours?" She said defensively.

"I was the only male they were milkin for sperm." He growled.

"Oh." That shut her up a moment. "That makes sense." She grumbled, he almost laughed.

"Get some sleep – we'll work this out when we get someplace safe." She just glared at him, and closed her eyes again. The smell of fear had faded – something that helped his own pain problems. He was a little concerned – he had expected more of a reaction to his revelation. He'd only known her a few weeks – and, really only a few days – mostly at events. He thought it might just be shock – that she had been given more than she could handle. He hoped that was the case – he didn't want to think about any other alternatives.

They made it to the cabin that night, and he carried her sleeping form inside and lay her down on the bed in the spare bedroom before going and collapsing on his own huge bed.

CVXCVXCVX

She woke up in a bed – a real bed with heavy warm blankets, soft pillows and – a hand carved headboard? She ran her fingers over the piece of furniture. It was carved with a hunting scene – that could have come straight off of a medieval tapestry. She looked at the carved posters, each one hand carved; the canopy railings were solid and carved with scenes like the headboard. She sat up in bed and looked around the rest of the room. The footboard was a match as well as the top of the large wooden trunk at the foot of the bed. She allowed herself a moment of pure envy – she would LOVE to have this in her pavilion for events.

"Okay – back to the mundane world Jessie." She muttered to herself as she turned back to the headboard, running her fingers gently over the delicate carving.

"Breakfast is ready." He said from the door.

"Did you carve this?" She asked before looking at him.

"Yeah – why?"

"It's beautiful and - WHERE did that COME FROM!" She said as she turned around to look at him. He was wearing a long leather tunic – why the hell was he still wearing loaner garb at events?

"What?" He looked around the room trying to understand what she was asking about.

"The shirt." He looked down at his hunting shirt – it was tailored deer hide – she'd never seen anything that looked that soft in leather – and it looked hand made. She wanted to crawl out of the bed and look at the seams – but winced at the twinge in her ankle.

"Yeah – ya get bored livin by yourself." He grumbled. She gave him another once over and realized the entire outfit was leather – and handmade – even his boots.

"Are you going somewhere? Did I miss an event notice?" She asked – wondering what kingdom they were in – barony – maybe she could find some loaner garb and go with him.

"Hunting – freezer stock is low – thought I'd go see if I could get a deer or moose."

"YOU HUNT in that?" Oh God! He could hunt – and did it in hand made leather clothes, he could carve – and God help her she knew he could use a sword – she had been afraid for a few weeks – now she knew – she was in love. She didn't care if he killed people for fun – she could give him an outlet for that.

He gave her a strange look and walked out. She noticed a hand carved crutch next to the bed and used it to hobble into the kitchen. She was still dressed in the hospital gown she'd worn in the cage – and she wondered if he had anything she could borrow. GOD she hoped so – she'd LOVE something like that leather outfit he was wearing.

"NOT NOW Jessie – mundane, think mundane." She looked around the room and found a pair of sweat pants that were huge and a sweatshirt she could wear for a dress. She found a bathroom off the room she was in and hobbled inside to clean up. She pulled off the filthy gown and looked at the splint on her leg. It wasn't a cast – and the rags could get wet so she climbed into the shower. The hot water helped as she found shampoo and conditioner and cleaned her hair. She toweled off and then pulled the sweatshirt on over her head. It was long enough that it came to her knees and she had to roll the sleeves up several times just to get her hands out – but it was soft – and warm – and it covered her.

She looked around for a brush and managed to get most of the tangles out of her hair, and with practiced ease braided it and wove it into a coil on her head that would hold without pins. She didn't even want to think about what she'd looked like – like some kind of wild animal probably. The only time she could remember letting her hair get that out of control had been after the Fort Battle at her first and – to date only – Pennsic – and then she'd made use of the showers before Court.

She hobbled into the kitchen to find scrambled eggs and bacon sitting on a plate on the hand carved table. She REALLY liked the furnishings in this place. Her stomach growled at the sight and smell of the food and she sat down and made short work of the food in front of her. She scraped her plate into a trash can she found and rinsed it in the hand pumped sink. Why the sink was hand pumped but the bathroom wasn't she didn't want to think about. The rustic feel of this place was really making her feel right at home.

She worked her way slowly into the main room of the house – and just stopped dead, awe and envy causing her to just gape. The stone fireplace was centered on the far wall, with comfortable looking couches and chairs arranged around it. There were wide exposed beams overhead in the raised ceiling and if you cleared out all the modern clutter it would make a fantastic Mead Hall.

"MUNDANE! Jessie." She hissed at herself. There was a large television – one of the new plasma big screens on one wall, a full home entertainment system built into the wall around it – but that wasn't what had grabbed her attention. It was the crossed broadswords hung over the mantle – hung in a way that they could be pulled down and used if needed.

"I don't care WHO he is – I need a fucking squire." She whispered to herself. She worked her way back down the hallway to the room she'd been given. Across the hall was a door to another room – and she almost fell to her knees at the sight in there. The huge four poster bed was hand carved like hers – but with battle scenes. The trunk at the foot was open – and seemed to be a fully functional clothes press – not just a trunk – but with all the compartments and stackable containers designed to fit inside, each one hand carved and ready to be nested back inside. She saw THREE more shirts like the one he was wearing when he left, FOUR pair of pants, THREE more pairs of boots, a bearskin cloak, not just one skin – but a fully tailored cloak out of bearskins. All the man needed was a good belt and he could pass at any event – well maybe some armor.

"I swear if I find any chain – I am going to find a club and drag him home."

She worked her way into the kitchen, muttering about his lack of feminine hospitality. He could have at least had a bit of loaner garb or something she could wear.

She heard a sound from the kitchen and hobbled that way to see what it was. He was washing his hands at the sink – his beautiful leather clothes covered in blood. He looked up at her.

"I got a deer – If I rough butcher it can you wrap it for the freezer?"

"I actually know how to butcher if you tell me what size and what cuts." She said. He gave her a strange look and put a cutting board and butcher block of knives on the table. She sat down and he pulled a stand with a roll of butcher paper with a cutter from behind a door in the wall.

"Deal." He muttered. He stepped out the back door and she saw the animal hanging – already skinned and drained of blood. They spent the rest of the morning cutting up meat and getting it into the freezer. He grumbled – but didn't complain about her cuts, and after the last pieces were separated to grind, he piled the scraps and offal into a bucket to dispose of. While he was gone – she threw a couple steaks she'd cut into a skillet – she needed to eat – so her healing would work.

CVXCVXCVX

He came back into the kitchen and looked around. Something smelled really good – as in something cooking. He looked around and saw her standing at the stove, the meat to be ground in a bowl, waiting on him to dig out the grinder.

"What are you cooking?"

"I threw in a couple steaks. My ankle still isn't healed – I don't know about you but my body needs fuel to heal properly."

"Mine too – and no, all my injuries aren't healed either." He grumbled, wincing again at the pain in his groin. The woman needed to find something else to wear – her in his sweatshirt was really not good for his healing – at all – of course her in ANYTHING wasn't going to be good for his healing.

"I don't suppose you have anything – well less bulky - that I could borrow?" She asked as if reading his mind.

"No – but there's a town not far from here – I can pick up some things later – just tell me sizes – I don't do all that frail crap – so you will have to wait on anything complicated until you can get it yourself." He grumbled as he sat at the table.

"Complicated?"

"Ya know – the straps and under things and shit."

"Oh – you mean underwear and bras."

"Whatever the hell they are called."

"That's fine – really, just something that I don't have to roll the sleeves up five times will be nice." She turned to put a steak on a plate and nearly fell over. He jumped up and caught her and the steak – and nearly dropped them both as his body tried to react. She noticed his wince – and he growled at her, daring her to say anything.

"I see I'm not the only one still in pain." She pushed herself away from him and hobbled to the table. He growled but handed her the plate with the steak on it – rare just the way he liked it. He grabbed the other one out of the skillet and dropped it onto a plate for himself before going back to the table.

"We need to talk about things." He said as he cut into the meat.

"What things?" She said as she chewed on hers.

"The cub – for one." He said, pointing through the table to her belly.

"Cub? Oh – you mean the little." She had been trying to forget THAT particular problem all day.

"I don't leave my seed." He grumbled.

"What does that mean?"

"It means in the entire time I've been alive, I've had ONE – count with me – ONE cub – and that was a HUGE mistake."

"Whoa – what are you saying?" She had a puzzled look on her face that quickly became determined.

"Just that – well – I ain't so sure this one's a mistake." She just looked at him, back to puzzled.

"I could really use some clarification here?" She said.

"Well – hell – frail – you can cook – butcher a deer with a broken ankle – ya don't seem ta mind my rather strange taste in furnishings – and you are carrying my cub – even if I didn't get to enjoy that part. I guess – no – no guess about it – you are going to marry me." He forced the words out with a snarl. He didn't like the idea – but it made sense, and the way his body was trying to react – with her healing factor – sex wasn't going to be much of an issue – eventually.

"I AM!" She shouted.

"YEAH!" He shouted back – he was surprised by her sudden laughter. He stared at her in shock

"You know what – you can work leather, carve, and if either of those swords over the mantle is a wall hanger I'll eat your shirt – hunt and butcher the meat – and I'll be damned if you don't fit right in with my friends and I am pregnant with your kid – even if I didn't get to enjoy it. I have been trying to figure out how to drag your ass home myself."

"WHAT?! Are you INSANE?" What woman in her right mind would want to marry HIM!

"No – you are the one who proposed first."

"I didn't 'propose' I gave a fuckin order." He growled.

"Whatever. But that does remind me – there is no way in HELL I am marrying a squire – so you HAVE to get your AoA first."

"AoA my ass. You are carrying my cub – marriage first – AoA's later."

"Whatever." She said again.

He went back to eating in silence.

She stood up and started to hobble back to the bedroom. He growled and stood up, she looked back over her shoulder and glared at him.

"I can walk – the ankle is getting better – slowly." He waited until he was sure she was in her room before following. She was sitting on the bed, and he could smell tears waiting to fall.

"Jess – Isabelle – the ankle will be fine – and you'll fight the lists again – I promise." He said softly.

"I am a little more concerned about mundane things at the moment, Victor." She snapped, one tear slipping from her eye. He growled – frail things bothered him. He sat next to her on the bed.

"Like what?"

"I don't know – my job, how the HELL I am going to raise a baby – because if you really think I am marrying you – you are delusional – as well as certifiably insane." He reached out and gripped her chin in a firm pinch, forcing her to look up at him.

"Not delusional – and not insane – I KNOW right from wrong – I CHOOSE to live the way I do. Get used to it – because you ARE marrying me." He looked into her eyes as his words sank in. Anger – but no fear – damn it. He leaned down, sliding his hand to the back of her head to keep her from pulling away – and kissed her. He'd wanted to do that since the first time he helped her into her armor – and like it or not – she was just going to have to get used to it.

He was surprised by the feel of her arms around his neck – and her mouth responding to his. He moaned – and then hissed in pain – pulling back quickly. His body wasn't ready to take this where he wanted it to go.

"Victor – what the hell is wrong?" She asked, concerned.

"They did something – I ain't sure what – but it hurts."

"What hurts – do we need to get YOU to a doctor?"

"NO! – and don't worry about what hurts – just be glad it does – or you'd be on your back about now." He growled. She at least had the grace to blush BEFORE she burst out laughing.

"OHHHH! OUCH! Are you sure we don't need to get you to a doctor?"

"FRAIL! Enough – my body will heal – just be grateful for the reprieve." He growled back – killing her was a definite prospect at the moment – and then she kissed him again.

"In case you didn't notice – that's a yes."

"Yes ta what?"

"Yes, I'll marry you."

"I knew that – I told you you would."

"Whatever." He was learning to hate that word.


End file.
